shades of gray
by whistleonwild
Summary: Pile of scraps, from various characters' lives.
1. 001: 5 Things Meme

**5 places Corosa would choose to get away from Satero. (from tenshinoakuma)**

**1.** Desert. It was all too easy to get lost in there.

But Satero was just as insane about the desert as Corosa was about Prontera. The moment Corosa tried to _turn_ in that direction, he'd get tackled to the ground. And wrestling with close to two hundred pounds of mastersmith was not exactly the time of his life.

**2.** "How the fucking _hell_ did you get all the way up there one-handedly?" Satero roared, from about twenty feet below, standing next to the guncase left at the base of the trunk.

"Painfully," Corosa answered from up in his tree. He couldn't even _feel_ his left arm now.

His mood was not improved any when Satero was suddenly struck with the brilliant idea to snatch Corosa's guncase and run off with it, cackling gleefully all the way.

**3.** In the rain, and the night. Satero didn't quite like getting cold and wet and miserable, and neither did Corosa, but at least it gave him _some_ measure of peace while Satero slept in what little shelter available.

Though Corosa didn't quite mind, either, when the mastersmith gave up on sleep. There was one night when Satero sat down and slung an arm over Corosa's shoulders. They remained like that the whole night. And Corosa didn't mind, really, because neither of them spoke a word.

**4.** "Goddammit, never, _never_ do that again," Satero growled, yanking Corosa close. And he refused to let go, as if he was afraid that Corosa would disappear once more, diving for far too long and far too _far_ into the sea.

**5.** When Satero got throughly drunk, he tended to be unable to associate names and faces with memory.

"So, uh, who am I fucking again?"

"...Trust me, we haven't met."

"Ah. Right. 'S what I thought."

--------------------

**5 times Corosa actually let someone (besides Satero) help him. (from brownie, Ruthlyn on FFNet) **

**1. **"Gods, getting drunk at four in the morning was not a good idea..." Corosa groaned, holding his head. He wasn't drunk now. No, not anymore, obviously. His last drink had been almost an hour or go. Or was it half an hour? Or two minutes? He couldn't recall anymore, but it hardly mattered. There were, at this moment, very few things in the world that mattered more than the headache ripping through his skull.

Why had he thought that downing all the alcohol in sight was a _good _idea?

He couldn't remember the reasoning behind it. Something about a need to make sure there was someone else alive aside from him. Something about three months of darkness, among other things.

But gods, his head hurt.

"Headache?" someone else asked. Without waiting for an answer, they pushed a mug of something across the table, towards him. "This'll help."

Corosa muttered his thanks and drank it all in one go.

**2.** Young adventurers did not brave the desert all that often, and neither did old adventurers, at that. Corosa's pride was stirred just slightly by the fact that he'd held out on his own for a few days. Which was more than could be said for most, especially when they were first-timers, and moreso when they were completely alone.

But eventually, he'd had to hunt down one of the friendlier nomadic tribes and ask--beg?--for their help.

Traveling with the nomads had been one of the most rewarding experiences in his life. True, he loved the desert no more than before, but now he had the means to survive there.

**3.** Corosa's city of birth was Einbroch. But in his entire life, he'd only been there a total of two times. When he was born, and when he joined the guild. And he knew his way around the city well enough, but there was no likelihood of him entering the city ever again. That knowledge was now obsolete.

What he needed to know--what he did _not _know--was his way around the ruined wilderness of that region. Or at least where the cities were from his position, so that he could avoid them.

The sandy-haired mechanic had looked at him with a raised eyebrow when he'd approached and made his request.

The boy chewed on his fingertip, then said, "You don't know...so you're not from around here?"

"No. Born here, but lived elsewhere."

"Ah. Well, right now Einbroch is about two miles north of us...if you head west you'll come across a bridge, that brings you close to Lighthalzen, and Einbech is northeast of here..."

**4. **"Oh, no."

Corosa looked up, surprised by the sudden appearance of a rather downtrodden priestess. The woman looked as if she'd just been mobbed by an entire city. But there was still enough life left for her to look down disapprovingly on Corosa as he tried to bandage a cut above his knee.

"See, now, when the bandage gets soaked, you _don't_ take it off, you just put another layer on top of it..." And without even a word of greeting, or introduction, or normal pleasantries of any sort, the priestess squatted down and started to give Corosa a lecture on wound care.

Corosa listened without uttering a single word.

**5. **A long time ago, Corosa remembered, he'd woken up in the middle of the night with a host of thief bugs crawling over his belongings.

They'd scattered as soon as he'd gotten up, but many of his valuables--including his house key--were long gone by then.

And so a month later, he'd found himself standing on the doorstep of his own home, trying to explain how a lock worked to his five-year-old daughter on the other side of the door. And she, while all too eager to let him in, had no idea which end of the key went into the lock.


	2. 002: Red Clovers

**002: RED CLOVERS**

Summertime, it ought to have made a girl like Soothe happy. All flowers and sunshine and bunnies in the fields, yeah? Instead it gave her the same feeling that other people had when sitting at their windows, at midnight, in the depths of winter.

She'd trundle down the road, whistling to herself, rolling her cart along behind her, and then she'd make for the nearest bit of shade and park herself there. Not to sell, not to vend, no, not that. Not on a summer day like this.

She'd had a good life. No one in her immediate family had ever died, not yet, though there'd been a general atmosphere of grief when the grandparents had gone. But life moved on from that. No one lingered. Everyone moved on.

She loved her family. Her mother was the sort of person who merchants ran away from, because she was an absolute terror when it came to haggling, and she'd taught Soothe most of what Soothe knew. And that had certainly made Soothe's life better, seeing as she was now quite a successful merchant. Successful enough to feed herself and clothe herself, enough to keep herself warm on cold nights.

Her father was a blacksmith, and a good one at that. Soothe hadn't seen a better axe than the one he'd given her. Not once, save for the _other _ones her father made gave her to sell. They always left her cart very quickly. Things never stayed in Soothe's possession for long. She always found a buyer, and there always a good amount of zeny jingling in her pockets.

But sometimes in the midst of all that, there was still something _missing. _

Well, not 'something', not anymore. A couple summers spent like this and she'd managed to pin it down.

Childhood. Dreams. Things she'd wished she done.

Soothe hadn't wanted to be a merchant when she grew up. That had been the _last _thing she'd wanted to be. Her mother's lifestyle had held no appeal for her; it'd always bored her to death. What she'd wanted, what she'd wanted all her life, was to be a _hero. _A swordswoman, a Lord Knight. Lady Knight. Something wonderful and larger-than-life, something glorious.

She'd kept that dream close to her heart all her years, even when her childhood had ended and she'd moved on to early adulthood. Then the rest of adulthood had caught up with her, and here she was, a fairly successful merchant. And she was _fine _with that. She even enjoyed her job now, arguing with people over prices, occasionally having to chase down aspiring thieves, impressing them with the fact that she could, in fact, wield an axe well enough to chop off a couple of their _superfluous_ fingers.

But summer was the season of dreams, and it always brought back the memories.

Sometimes Soothe felt like she'd let herself down, and there was that little kid with the self-cut hair again, informing her horrified parents that all that long hair she'd once had, it'd only hinder her when she went into the battlefield. _When _she went into the battlefieldnot _if. _

Soothe was sitting under the shade of the tree now, a cart parked next to her, filled up with her wares. Far as could be from a battlefield.

She tugged thoughtfully at her hair. It still barely reached below her ears.

The haircut was maintained out of comfort now, and always practicality. Soothe _had _never gotten used to the feel of long hair again, ever since that first time she cut it. She'd kept it at the same length since.

But somewhere along the way, while she'd been chopping off her locks, she'd chopped off her dreams as well. And with her dreams went the last scraps of her childhood.

Soothe was lucky, she knew. Not everyone in this world was as happy as her, or successful. Some of them hadn't even had _childhoods _to speak of; they'd practically been cynical, jaded adults ever since they popped out of the womb. People with eyes of ice, who spent _their _childhoods learning how to strangle it. There were a lot of them, in a world like this. But the world needed people like Soothe too. And that was why, in a way, she'd lost her childhood as well.

Those ice-eyed people, some of them just wanted to be happy and normal.

Soothe was happy and normal, and she'd wanted to be a hero.

No one grew up into their dream, and those who did only _thought _they did. Because in the end, everyone seemed to learn _this isn't how I thought it'd be. _

Soothe told herself that. Surely, if she'd actually gone down the path of the knight, she'd just wind up complaining about the ache in her arms from wielding that sword, and at night she'd go to sleep haunted by faces of people she'd killed. Merchants didn't usually wind up killing people.

Besides, she probably didn't have the guts to murder.

Being a merchant wasn't so bad.

But there was always that gnawing feeling in the back of her head, where the heroine Soothe had wanted to be had been smothered, and the body was rotting away along with that of the child Soothe had once been.

Soothe folded her hands behind her head and breathed in deep. Summer air, laden with the heavy smell of wet grass and flowers and, unfortunately, pollen. She sneezed.

And that was when she noticed the flower.

It was a flower, just that, no special memories attached to it, really, except for one of those old, worn-down memories; like memories of brushing your hair. It was something you did every day. Not something even _worth_ remembering, because your body did that automatically for you. Your mind forgot it, freed space up for more important things to be remembered.

Red clovers.

They grew everywhere. Soothe saw them all over the place; wherever there was the slightest bit of soil, there was always a clump of red clovers fighting for some space. No one else thought twice about them. But Soothe had discovered, as a child, that when you picked off the strand-like petals the bottoms were always whitish. And when you sucked on them, they tasted sweet. Soothe had spent most of her childhood picking red clovers and sucking the nectar out.

She plucked off the flower head and, between thumb and forefinger, pulled out a few of the petals. They were the exact same as they had been ten years ago, a hundred years ago, and would be the same a hundred years from now. Carefully, she bit down on the white ends, crushing them between her teeth. And there it was; the taste of honey, mixed in with the fresh taste of grass.

With a furtive look, to make sure no one was watching, she chewed the petals up and swallowed them. Just because she'd always done that, being too lazy to spit them out. The taste of petals wasn't so bad, either.

One of these days she'd probably wind up eating the stem.

Then she laughed to herself and stood up, pulling her cart along down to the road. And she went on with life.


	3. 003: YOUR FAULT

**003: YOUR FAULT**

Had anyone in Morroc been awake at three o' clock in the morning, the first thing that would have caught their eye would be the assassin and the archer running down the street at breakneck speed. There were actually a few people up at that time, who were able to give very good descriptions of the two when a certain very irate barkeeper turned up later that morning.

However, that had not happened yet, and by the time it did, Sound and Stone would be far away from Morroc, bitching at each other for getting themselves lost in the Sograt Desert.

Because no matter what happened, it was always the other person's fault.

------------------------

That early morning in Morroc, Sound and Stone only stopped running when the barkeeper's voice faded away. The barkeeper in question hadn't followed, but he had been extraordinarily loud. Loud enough to make Sound and Stone _think _he'd been following.

They stopped near the northwestern gate, listening carefully. Nothing, save their own heavy breathing.

Then Sound spun around and slapped his best friend. Stone yelped and hopped away. Sound promptly ignored him, pulled out a piece of paper and a pen, and began to scribble furiously.

------------------------

YORE A FUCKING IDIOT

A FUCKING _IDIOT_

------------------------

Stone watched him write. His hand twitched as Sound wrote 'fucking' for the second time, as if he were about to make a grab for the pen. But his self-control took over and he let Sound write out the redundant second sentence.

_Then _he made a grab for the pen.

------------------------

_--I think you're the idiot here, can't even write properly, I can barely read what you're writing—what's that word before idiot? All I see is a c, and even then it might be an e_

------------------------

Sound hit Stone on the back of the head with one hand, and snatched the pen away with his other.

------------------------

you know what FUCK YOU

_--I wasn't done writing yet. I'm betting it's 'fucking', right? That's apparently your fav_

what the hell you write about the stupidest things Now lets mov

_--Will you let me finish_ _writing for o_

NO MY FUCKING PEN I'M GOING TO KICK YOU IN THE NUTS IF YOU TAKE IT AGAIN

good

NOW LISTEN GODDAMN IDIOT IT WAS YOUR FAULT THIS TIME AND I AM COMPLETELY FUCKIN SERIOUS

--_It wouldn't be my fault if we left when I said we should've_

YOUR FAULT

--_LET ME FINIS _

BITCH

------------------------

The frenzied bout of writing stopped for a moment as Stone lunged at Sound and tackled him to the ground. The paper got torn up somewhere along the way, and as soon as they got out another sheet they both made a grab for the pen. Sound got it, because Sound chose that same moment to sink his teeth into Stone's arm.

------------------------

Now we aint ever gonna go there again cause that bastard gonna recognize us You dont get mutes often THAT WAS MY FAVORITE BAR FUCKER

--_See, I let you finish writing_

IF YOURE GONNA BITCH ABOUT THAT IM NOT LETTING YOU WRIT

------------------------

More tackling ensued.

Again, Sound won the fight for the pen, this time by shoving Stone's face into the dusty ground.

------------------------

i cant believe you actually FUCKING DID THAT

WASTED ALL YOUR MONEY ON A CARD GAME

AND THEN MINE TOO

--_I can't believe that you only had fifty zeny on you._

FUCK MAN I ACTUALLY PAY FOR MY DRINKS

--_That's a new one. Today I seem to recall you punching the barkeeper when he realized you had no money and got angr_

TODAY I COULDNT CAUSE YOU FUCKING STOLE EVERYTHIN

--_I __asked__ you for your money, you __gave__ it to me._

I WAS FUCKIN DRUNK YOU SHOULD HAV KNOWN BETTER

--_I wish you would write properly for once._

------------------------

Instead of writing down 'SHOVE IT UP YOR ASS', Sound chose to physically demonstrate instead.

It was at that point that they dashed out into the Sograt, because Stone suddenly decided he really did not like the idea of a pen being anywhere near him, and furthermore, he suddenly did not like the idea of _Sound _being anywhere near him either.

------------------------

Later that morning, during the barkeeper's hunt for the assassin and the archer, he found nothing but a few sightings of the two running through the streets, and a few scraps of paper with two different types of handwriting on it: near illegible, and frighteningly neat.

Unfortunately for him, the writers were far away by this point, wondering what the hell they were supposed to do with a whole mob of sandmen chasing after them.

This time, Stone thought, it was _definitely _Sound's fault.

* * *

**A/N**: All of the spelling/grammar/punctuation mistakes in Sound's writing is intentional. ...I hope this was obvious. D: 


	4. 004: World's Biggest Failure

**004: THE WORLD'S BIGGEST FAILURE**

**A/N: **…is apparently _not_ Feharan, much to my own surprise.

---------------------

The first time Blackened met Mukhari, the man had screamed like a teenage girl and promptly smashed the king of Bibles into his face.

The second time Blackened met Mukhari, the man had screamed like a teenage girl and promptly flung the king of Bibles into his stomach.

The third time Blackened met Mukhari, the man had screamed like a teenage girl and -- well, Blackened didn't like remembering where the king of Bibles had hit him _that _time. Regardless to say, there had been a real fear that Blackened's parents would have been sorely deprived of grandchildren.

The _eighty_-third time Blackened met Mukhari, there had been no screaming, only a lot of swearing, and the king of Bibles had been dodged. Unfortunately for Mukhari, the book had landed in the fireplace and promptly turned to ash.

"You weren't supposed to do that," Mukhari said afterwards, scratching his head in confusion.

"Big-ass bruises are no longer the height of fashion," Blackened replied. "And you forgot to scream." Mukhari _always _screamed, even in the dead of night, even in extremely public places, even in dungeons they were sneaking around in, trying to _avoid_ attracting the attention of monsters.

"Fuck!" Mukhari slammed his fist into his palm. "I _thought _I forgot something. Can I scream now--"

"_No,_" Blackened said. "I think I like this new-and-improved 'hello'."

"You're a goddamn no-fun bastard." Mukhari flopped down on the ground next to Blackened, much like a dead fish. "I miss my Bible, bring it back, O great master of human embroidery."

"_I _don't miss it," Blackened said. After Mukhari pushed off to sleep on the roof or wherever it was he slept, Blackened was going to collect the ashes and piss on them. "I don't miss the thing at _all._"

"I'm sure you will in two days' time. You will weep like a little girl, I assure you. _Damn!_ Do you know how rare that thing probably was? I've never seen a bigger one!"

"That's because you went and pasted loads of dirty pictures between each chapter--"

"_Exactly_," Mukhari said, mournfully. He prodded the ashes of his beloved Bible with the poker and pulled off a salute -- or at least tried to, while lying in a most undignified position, flat on his face. "Fare thee well, kind and benevolent soul, for you have fought the good fight and whatever, this is a load of bullshit, come _on, _Black, let's go get fucking wasted already. We can streak this time. I bet you love streaking. And I'm going to make people _pay_ to see me streak, I need buy another Bible and more pictures, those ones were getting old anyway."

Blackened arched an eyebrow at Mukhari. The only people whom would pay to see _Mukhari_ streak would be the sort Mukhari regularly tried to sell Blackened to.

Mukhari waggled his eyebrows conspiratorially. "Streaaaaaking."

"You're sick. And you can go get wasted and go streaking with some _other_ sick bastards. I'll stay right here." Blackened got up and threw another log on the fire. Even if he'd _liked _running around naked, he wouldn't have done so on this particular night; not when your nose froze off as soon as you opened the door.

Though it would be for the good of mankind if Mukhari froze off his reproductive organs. In fact, Blackened thought encouraging Mukhari to freeze off his reproductive organs went under the category of 'Saving the Future Generations'.

"You can go," Blackened said, with maniacal cheerfulness. "I'm sure it'll be fun. You haven't gotten drunk since, er, one o' clock this morning" _-- when you puked all over my feet --_ "it's not _healthy_ to, umm, be sober for so long"

Mukhari was now regarding him with the one-eyed glare of suspicion. It was amazing how much suspicion the ex-priest could channel into an one-eyed glare. Then again, Mukhari was constantly complaining about how Blackened could melt down armor with _his _glares. But at least Blackened had two eyes. At least _his _eyes weren't weird and freaky with a pupil that was paler than the iris.

It didn't seem right, somehow, that such a psychotic-looking eye belonged to _Mukhari, _who spent his free time getting thrown out of windows by angry drunks.

"Hell, you're trying to do something weird, aren't you," the aforementioned window-breaker said. He stuck his tongue out and lapsed into deep thought.

With a colossal effort of deduction, Mukhari said, "Is it because _you _want to see me naked?"

Blackened snorted and blew a strand of hair away. "Ask me later, when I feel more _suicidal_."

"You're _always _suicidal. You're a black-hearted wrist-cutting bitchy moany girly little twerp." Most people were twerps, according to Mukhari. He'd called one of the high priests a twerp, the one who was about nine foot eleven and caused earthquakes when he tip-toed. On the other hand, Blackened _was_ a head shorter than Mukhari.

"I_ must_ be suicidal, if I still haven't shoved your head into that fire," Blackened said. He felt pretty suicidal for being a priest, too, when he'd lost all faith in any god a long time ago. Then again, Mukhari had once climbed to the top of the Pronteran Church and shouted '_God sucks dick for half a zeny!'_ and _he _was still alive. Which only made Blackened doubt the existence of God some more.

At least Mukhari was no longer an official priest. That was what he still called himself, but the Church denied any connection to him. That wasn't hard, when Mukhari knew shit-all nothing about common acolyte skills, and the only reason he ever made it to priest-status was because a) the Church didn't want him frightening the acolytes and b) he somehow kept coming back. All in all, he was -- had been -- the most useless priest Blackened had ever met. Blackened didn't do magic, either, but at least _he _was a halfway decent doctor. Mukhari's one great talent lay in chopping off limbs with a sadistic glee. The man had once walked around whacking people with severed arms. Admittedly, he'd been both drunk _and_ high that time.

He was also useful when it came to hunting maggots. Any maggots Mukhari wanted to use were the ones that ate living flesh; therefore, Blackened always knew which maggots _not _to choose.

"See? You're doing it again," Mukhari said, jabbing the end of the poker into Blackened's side.

"Doing what?" Blackened asked, jabbing the heel of his foot into Mukhari's forehead.

"Being all dark and broody and doing that I'm-thinking-about-real-important-philosophical-shit right now," Mukhari said. When confronted with Blackened's all-purpose blank-stare-of-confusion, Mukhari said, "What I mean is, you look like you're constipated."

The heel of Blackened's foot went down again. Repeatedly. Mukhari yelped.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! _Your heel-bone is shaped like a dagger, this isn't fair!"_


	5. 005: Brains and Brawn

**005: BRAINS AND BRAWN**

It was never quite clear, half the time, what they were.

They were criminals. Of that Stone was sure. They were most definitely criminals by the standards of modern society. Furthermore, they were a twosome, partners-in-crime. And the most efficient thing to do was to have one man do all the thinking and the other man do all the beating-people-senseless. Time-honored method. Brains and brawn.

However, it seemed to Stone that they didn't _have _any brains or brawn. All they had was an awful lot of panic-fueled speed.

And a nearly genius method of communication. Which mostly consisted of staring intently at one another.

Right now Sound's stare was saying something along the lines of: "_You fucked it up again!_" Or he was trying to say_ "HE IS GOING TO RAPE US." _Or – oh, hell, forget this, Stone couldn't actually tell. For all he knew, Sound could be saying_ "I feel like fucking a poring."_

It was amazing, really, that Sound always seemed to know what Stone was thinking. On the other hand, sometimes Stone suspected that he just thought whatever Sound wanted him to think because that was the path of least resistance.

Right now it seemed like Sound wanted Stone to think _I'm an incredibly stupid bastard, everything is my fault, the fall of Glast Heim was my fault even though I wasn't even an inkling of existence at the time and also, I'm so, so, so stupid and I should probably go kill myself in the most painful way possible right now. _

Stone stared back, and tried to make Sound think something like _Gee, I think shoving this katar through my eye is a really good idea! _

The thought somehow went right over Sound's head and into the skull of the person chasing them, who somehow had managed to get into what Sound referred to as the _stabbity-stabbity-arrrrgh-unthinkable-pain-not-there-you-goddamn-bastard-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck-fuck _range. At least, that was probably what he'd been trying to write down at the time, except Stone had fallen asleep while watching the assassin painstakingly scrawl out every single word as _slowly as possible. _

Sound had no class. Stone thought he was a complete failure as an assassin, but would have made a wonderful barbarian. Or an orc.

On that note, the man who was currently trying to jam the blade of a knife between Stone's shoulderblades was probably already an honorary orc. Stone made an undignified yelping noise, tripped over his own feet, and, due to the blade that barely missed his head, managed to pass the whole thing off as a highly sophisticated and elaborate dodge. To the attacker, anyway. Sound would probably know better. The yelp gave it away. And the fact that Stone was the sort of person who would never even _consider_ throwing himself to the side if chased by a single large, heavy, accelerating, and _straight-rolling _boulder. Not that Sound would do any better. Sound would probably attack the thing with his teeth.

Which was pretty much what he was doing now. A minute later, their chaser was on the receiving end of a punch powered by one hundred and sixty pounds of Sound. Which, admittedly, was not much. But good enough for Sound to yank Stone up and for the both of them to flee like headless chickens.

Brains and brawn. Yeah, well, despite Sound's punch, they were still being chased, and if Stone had tried the same thing his knuckles would have broken before the guy's nose. And brains? Stone knew full well that he froze up in tricky situations (which was why, most of the time, Sound blamed him for their screw-ups) and as for Sound – hah! Brains? _Sound? _This was the man whose strongest attack was probably his _headbutt. _

No wonder their lives were so miserable.


	6. 006: Trouble Fighting

**006: TROUBLE FIGHTING**

The system of glares and intent stares again.

Currently Stone and Sound were somewhere else on the plain which Sound referred to as Godforsaken-Shithole-I-Fucking-Hate-This-Place-Hate-Hate-Hate-Hate-_Hate_. That was how Sound referred to most places, though, unless there was a bar in the immediate vicinity.

Stone tried to take the initiative, this time, and insofar as it was possible, his glare was the most _It-Was-YOUR-Fault _glare there ever was.

And beaten, not a second later, by Sound's own.

If anyone was capable of shouting loud enough to burst eardrums through a glare, it was Sound.

Sound stopped running, clutching his stomach with his good hand and breathing hard. He held up his mangled hand and shook it at Stone. Stone could hear the chorus of _your-fault your-fault your-fault _ringing in his ears. He wished he'd bought earplugs back in the last town they'd been in.

Stone looked at the broken fingers – all of them, except the thumb and forefinger – and shrugged.

It was, after all, Sound's fault.

Sound slapped him with the broken hand, then yelled in pain.

Immediately they both looked around, as if expecting the gunslinger and mastersmith to jump out at them. But if there was anything they were actually good at, it was running away. The only person who had ever managed to outrun them was the insane merchant lady, and she _cheated_ because it'd been down a hill and she'd thrown herself into her cart.

Sound had wound up with a broken leg, that time, and Stone would have wound up with a broken skull if he hadn't returned the insane merchant lady's wares as meekly as possible. _And _paid for the damaged cart.

He wondered, vaguely, if Sound would make him pay for his damaged hand. And face. The gunslinger's punch had broken his nose, for the millionth time. There were times when Stone figured things would be easier for Sound if he cut his nose off altogether.

With smugness, Stone thought that _he'd _never had his nose broken. Or almost all his fingers on one hand.

Sound stared at his hand with the most forlorn expression Stone had ever seen. Had Sound been able to talk, he would have started crying and wailing about how cruel and unfair the world was.

Stone was not impressed. His slapped cheek was fairly radiating his unimpressed-ness.

He ignored his so-called friend and turned his back on him, instead paying attention to the far more important matter of what they had gained from all of that. Sound had gained a broken nose and lots of broken fingers and probably a broken ego – they hadn't expected a limping mastersmith and a one-armed gunslinger to do that much damage – whereas Stone had gained nothing, since they all knew he jumped at the littlest things already, so him yelping when the gunslinger shot at him had been no surprise to anyone.

However, they had _both _gained the gunslinger's case.

Hopefully it was worth the trouble.

Sound scrambled up next to him, looking down at the somewhat battered object with interest.

He somehow managed to open it by operating the mechanism with his toes. It was a strange habit – talent? -- of Sound's. What other people did with their hands, he did with his feet. Stone would never cease to be amused by it, except when they were fighting and Stone found himself with Sound's foot in his face. Not a pleasant experience. Worse was when Stone got desperate and bit Sound's toes, which left him with a nasty taste in his mouth for the rest of the day. But it was worth it, to see Sound hop around on one foot and yelling like crazy.

Sound was ignoring him, again. He flicked the lid of the case open with his feet too.

Stone crouched down.

Guns.

Well, of course.

Rifles, revolvers, a shotgun. Ammo. There wasn't much of it. Some other weird things, all made of metal, all looking like they were bits and pieces of some other gun. Nothing Stone could really identify, or use. On the other hand, Sound could use anything. Rarely for what it was actually for, but he could still _use_ everything.

He picked up one of the bits-and-pieces-of-some-other-gun, looked it over with a critical eye, and deemed it Good For Chucking At Stone's Head, which was exactly what he did a moment later.

And then--

"_Oy, those are OURS, you fucking bastards!"_

Stone and Sound exchanged a glance and, for once, they both completely understood each other:

_Shit._

_----------_

**A/N: **Sneak peak at Sandstorm 17, I guess. :D


End file.
